Desolation's Rise
by Cypher DS
Summary: The leaders of Hoenn reveal the secrets behind their rise to power. Companion piece to "Redemption's Fall".
1. The Foundations of Sin

******Author's Note: I do not own any of the characters or original story elements associated with the Pokemon series. All rights go to their respective owners.**

******The following chapters are meant to be read alongside my story "_Redemption's Fall_" and explore the backstories of the Hoenn leaders. If you're lost as to what's going on you may want to check out _RF_ first.  
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* * *

**The Foundations of Sin - Roxanne's Tale**

The green-robed monk pours my tea and sets the tray of sandwiches by my elbow. I don't need their human food but it is simpler to accept these tokens in silence than to attempt an explanation of our fundamental physiological differences. I despise their servitude – their bowing and grovelling and idolatrous worship – but at least the humans in this realm refrain from spilling their blood over stone altars or burning animal meat to appease their "Oracle". Weighed against the fanatical stories I've heard, I can tolerate an offering of cucumber sandwiches.

His work is done but the human lingers. I'm practiced at blocking out distractions but this one breathes through his mouth in the most annoying manner. _It's him_, I think, and when I turn around the antenna hair confirms my hunch. _Barky_, or some similar name – the human I personally escorted from that maze of a forest; the worshiper who clings to me like mud on my boot. "That is all," I tell him. _Your goddess is satisfied with your work, now leave her alone._ The round man beams like a star and toddles off, content that I am content.

My human face snorts. Damn the relocation teams for dropping him outside the perimeters, and damn my bleeding heart for taking pity on that mewling soul. I'll never understand what blasphemous pleasure Steven derives from mingling with the humans. There are boundaries that must be maintained between our species and I am no nursemaid to be coddling wounded livestock; my responsibility is system maintenance. I plunge myself into the data records: sea alkalinity stable, atmospheric gases stable; tectonic movement is within reasonable parameters so that nuisance of a volcano will remain dormant. The realm continues its well-ordered operations. Excepting that one blasted tic. Grid Omega-26 – the sensors continue to pour in a stream of null data.

I've endured this incompetence longer than necessary. With the recorder in hand I transmit myself through the realm to grid Beta-30 where the realm's unusual governor has seated himself upon a rocky beach with his latest pupil. Steven's projection is stripped to the waist and folded into a meditative pose to optimize concentration. A blue-haired human mimics Steven's stance but lacks the celestial's calm. His face is trembling with anger, threatening to break apart in a scream. Two standard minutes and twenty seconds later the human storms to his feet, hurls an insult at his mentor and kicks pebbles in Steven's face. The boy storms away, radiating fury.

_Wretch, _I hiss, and record the human's statistics for a future Purge recommendation. Steven, meanwhile, continues his meditation. His position is unchanged but his aura has taken a sombre tone. This pupil will not speak with him again. _How is he moved so profoundly by these specks of dirt? _ Steven smiles as I approach; perhaps pleased that I am leaving the Entralink facilities of my own violation. "The sunrise is magnificent, isn't it, Roxanne?"

The time is 0745 hours. From these coordinates the system's star has been visible for a half-hour and the atmospheric gases hum in bands of orange and red. I've detected no solar flares or radiation bursts so I suppose one could define this stability as 'beautiful'. My commentary is irrelevant, of course. There is work to be done. "The sensors in the south-eastern archipelago continue to malfunction."

"A blind spot," Steven summarizes, rising to his feet and updating his projection with human garments – a fanciful collared shirt, neckpiece and jacket. He flips through the blank pages that indicate a week's worth of inactivity. "Any reports from the field?"

"Anthony was dispatched one star cycle prior." An inaccuracy – it was 23 hours and 45 minutes – but Steven has no appreciation for precision.

"Of course," he nods. "And since you're emerging from your cocoon that means you've already tried calling him and sent a second party to recon." Steven awaits response but as there are no statements to correct I maintain my silence. "Right then," he sighs. "I'll go have a look. Anything else to discuss, Roxanne?"

There is. _Why have you structured this realm so abnormally? Why do you insist on housing all equipment in the human construct? Why do you, the Power of this realm, insist we interact directly with individual humans? _But I maintain my silence. I have to be better than the humans, better than those animals whose anger breaks and bursts so readily. Steven, however, is intent on ending my passive-aggression by any necessary provocation. "I received your latest request for transfer. It's been denied."

"What!?" The cry slips through my defenses – _he'll kill me for speaking out_ – but Steven's eyes invite me to continue. There is no going back. "Forgive me. What I meant to say is that my skills and personality are ill-suited to the needs of this particular realm. I am unable to comprehend why I must remain."

"Because our kind needs to change, Roxanne. Because I want you to see the humans in a new light. What is the purpose of this realm?"

"Judgement."

"Redemption," he corrects. "We are on a mission of mercy and guidance. The souls that enter this realm, they are not numbers to be recorded or inventory to be itemized; they are lives. They are lost children to be redirected towards the Creator."

I gesture to the footprints of his departed pupil. "By allowing them to exhibit such gross disrespect?"

"If it kept them from lashing out at one another, yes, I would gladly accept the hatred of all these humans. Or celestials," he adds. "You are a capable administrator, Roxanne, but you lack compassion. The true worth of a celestial is in how she treats her lesser."

"I can't abide them running through my library." Nesting in the Rustburo facility like vermin, dressing them up in green costumes like house pets. "Then you demand I modify the lower levels to allow human access. I thank the Creator they haven't broken anything yet!"

"These humans have so much to teach us, Roxanne, if we only treat them as equals."

Again with these delusions of brotherhood and harmony. I don't need to learn from the humans; I can't even stand to be in the same space with them. "I just want to monitor my system in peace," I say, at my limit.

I should be punished for my insubordination but Steven only looks at me with a profound sadness. "Right," he sighs, "off to Ever Grande, then." Like a stubborn stone I refuse to budge and Steven is made of too much kindness to force me further. He summons his familiar - the biomechanical arachnid – and mounts his steed in order to inspect the system anomaly.

"Self-transmission would be more efficient," I say.

"Physical travel will allow me to assess the situation from a distance," he counters. "And it is such a magnificent sunrise."

It will be the last sunrise Steven is able to enjoy. I return to my Library and find it in flames. Someone has remote accessed the communications wing and shut down the coolant systems. The equipment is beyond repair. We are cut off from the Entralink and war has begun.

* * *

While I struggle to contain system failures the humans take advantage of my blindness and begin fighting each other. Refugees stream into Rustburo: human females and their adopted brood who cry of war and invasion. A man from the east has declared himself Emperor and is swallowing whole cities into his new dominion. I care little for their political squabbles – more coal for the Fire – what I need is intelligence as to the source of the data loss; field reports from the teams I have dispatched. I delegate the immigrants to the monks and retreat to the library, scanning the records for some root cause of this chaos.

After four lunar revolutions my solitude is broken when Steven transmits himself into the Library. Wherever he's come from he had to leave quickly – his human body materializes two feet off the ground and collapses in a mess of blood. His clothes are torn, hair askew and his upper-left appendage has been removed. 'Hacked off' as humans would say. "Taken Petalburg ..." he mutters feverishly. "On their way..." Then he cries and surrenders to the pain.

For once my silence is a genuine loss for words. Steven is a Power, least of the Second-Borne but nigh-omnipotent nonetheless. His fire and fury could consume a dozen trained archangels but now he can barely lift himself off the floor. It's not simply his human guise that has been damaged. Our enemy has dug wounds down into Steven's very core. To be reminded that even one such as Steven is mortal – the sight shakes me.

Noticing the terror in my eyes, Steven makes an effort to sit up and laugh. "Sorry for intruding," he coughs, and glances at his empty shoulder socket. "I'm really falling to pieces today."

I have to do my best to play along, to maintain my professionalism. I begin the debriefing, selecting a record of my most recent dispatch orders. "Steven, I've been unable to contact the following operatives. I need you to confirm the status of-"

"Gone."

"I haven't finished."

"You don't have to. The answer is 'gone'. Anthony and Julia, Nathaniel; everyone. Roxanne, they're all dead." Steven's eyes grow teary over the losses and I am stunned by my own indifference. I'm shocked, of course, and confused, but the names of the departed are a list of strangers. _I never knew them. Never spoke to them beyond dispatch orders; never bothered to learn more than their names_.

"Steven, the humans have been reporting a war within this realm." How simple I have been, pegging their squabble as a mere riot – the idiot masses taking advantage of a blackout to indulge in their vulgar pleasures. No, this has been a cold and calculated insurrection. "Steven, you have to tell me, has this Emperor been targeting celestials?" _I am not worthy to proceed on my own, but only say the word and the Creator's will shall be done. _ "Has this Emperor murdered my kin?"

Skin white as death, Steven's eyes meet my own. "Roxanne, he's using the humans. Filling their hearts with hate and sending them to massacre both Man and Host."

_Yes._ I've recorded our conversation. I have my evidence and I can proceed, faultless. I leave Steven to his misery, speaking my assessment aloud. "The humans have taken celestial life. They have fallen beyond redemption." I can feel my soul burning and I let its light blaze blue from my chest. "There is no forgiveness; there is only Fire." I burn away my human skin; let my wings and talons rejoice in their freedom.

"Roxanne, no!"

Oh, but even a Power cannot stop me now. I smash through the Library walls and shriek over the city like a bird of prey. Self-transmission would be more efficient but now I want to take Steven's advice and admire the scenery – to drink in the human's terror as I swoop over the rooftops in all my horrible splendor. An army has trampled through the forest and is approaching our walls. _Beautiful,_ I think. _They can all be Purged in a single blow._

I soar up to the golden shrine held above my Library, ripple through the selectively permeable walls to call forth our greatest weapons. I can feel the black box calling for me. "This is the day of judgment," I breathe, "and we who stand upon the Throne of God shall cleanse the damned in hellfire!" I don't just open the casket, I rip it apart – unleash the maelstrom!

But the decoy crumbles in my grip like black sand and the air is silent. "Were you looking for this?" Steven asks, fully regenerated and holding the obsidian box in his hands.

"Give it to me, Steven! They are lost!" I spread my wings over the room and raise my serpentine neck, bathing the room in red and white plumage. _I'm ready to strike_, a tiny part of me realizes. _I'm ready to kill him._ Steven, in his puny human form, is unfazed, ignoring my battle posture in favor of the box and its glowing symbols.

"You were prepared to unleash this horror?" he asks. "On guilty and innocent alike?"

"I'm prepared to do what you cannot," I hiss, "and cull a diseased livestock!"

"You've learned so little," he whispers. Wrapping his hands around either end of the box, Steven presses his palms together and compresses our last hope out of existence. My roar coincides with a battle trumpet from the army, and we both look through the shrine walls at the field of soldiers assembled to take Rustburo.

"We are lost," I snarl. "This realm is lost!" The Emperor stands at the head of the invading army, and I can smell the aura of a celestial cloaking him like a dead animal's pelt. I don't know what ancient artifacts he unearthed or by what means but they have granted him power beyond human worth, and when he learns to use them beyond petty slaughter no soul will be safe.

"Nothing is lost," Steven insists. "Without the library – the control center – they can do nothing."

_Oh you deluded fool._ "Why do you think I haven't called for reinforcements? We've been severed from the Entralink! They've hacked the system once; even I won't be able to stop them again!"

Steven looks out on the assembled army, the swarm of hatred. "Then you need a better firewall," he says, and with a blink he teleports us both. I am cast down into the Library, wrapped again in human flesh. My legs wobble and topple to the floor. _He's cast a binding protocol_. _I can't move!_ I can sense Steven's aura from outside the city, crackling against the Emperor's stolen energy. My arms still function and I drag myself to the nearest shelf, clawing out a random book so I can access the sensors outside the city. _I may be lame but I won't be blind. Steven, what are you up to?_

The governor of Ream 724+ stands between the city and the army of black and gold. A sea of spears, shields, horns and claws thrashes before Steven, waiting for the signal to drown him in blood. _It would be a fair fight_, I think, licking my lips and waiting for Steven to obliterate the infidels. But the Power only wipes his nervous brow, straightens his tie and drops to his knees, palms open and outstretched. I scream. The Emperor and his personal guard ride up to meet this humbled negotiator. "I surrender," Steven cries. "On the condition that you spare this city. Set no foot in Rustburo and there will be no further opposition. I am all that remains."

The leader of this uprising is no fool. "What about your flying beast," the Emperor snaps. "The woman you call the Oracle?"

"Who, Roxanne?" Steven laughs. "Please – she's a Principality; little better than a human. She's no harm to you. I'm the one you want and here I am, on my knees and waiting to be chained. Spare the city; there's no profit in further slaughter."

Steven offers his hand to shake and the Emperor weighs his options. Can he sense the aura emanating from Steven, I wonder? Does he understand what opposition Steven could raise if he chose to fight? The conquering king apparently holds some ounce of wisdom because the man finally dismounts his fire horse and accepts Steven's terms, shaking hands and offering a serpent's cunning smile.

Then Steven clasps his remaining hand over the Emperor's, and a network of glowing sigils lights up over the Power's skin. The man is on his knees and howling with pain. "Naturally," Steven grins, "I've no faith in your word."

The guards surround Steven, strike him to the ground but they are too late. Already I can sense the blood oath activating; the barrier of invisible energy rising over Rustburo City. The Emperor calls on his servants to attack, and as the first foolhardy waves reach they explode back in heaps of burning flesh. None shall enter the sacred city – not the Emperor, nor his soldiers. We are a sanctuary.

Once the Emperor comprehends the rules of our new order a withdrawal is called. The horde retreats into the forest, carrying off Steven's unconscious form. Not that he could struggle if awake. Unconditional surrender for absolute safety. Those were his terms.

The humans of Rustburo murmur to each other, confused. First the threat of invasion; then a strange, winged dragon erupting from my library, and now the sounds of retreat. _I'm the only one who saw the sacrifice,_ I realize. Once the binding over my legs dissolves I march for the city gates and raise my hand to touch the outside world. Smoke hisses from my fingers the instant they cross the invisible barrier. Steven's blade strikes with two sides, I realize, and none may exit.

A group of monks has shadowed me to the gates and the littlest one cries out at my injury. "My Lady, are you hurt?" he asks, and in rushing to attend to my wound, the antenna-headed monk steps outside the city boundaries. He is unharmed. Blubbering in fear over my hand but unconsumed by flame.

Steven. Even at our darkest hour you insist that I love and learn from these humans.

The library systems are mangled – I can read only scattered fragments of the outside world. The realm could undergo an ecological meltdown and I would be powerless to avert disaster. The celestials I would have dispatched to perform my grunt work are dead. I have nothing left.

My penance is set.

I turn to the assembled monks. "You – the round one. Barky?"

"B-Barlcay, my Lady."

"Barclay," I repeat, committing the name to memory. "I need your help."


	2. Wrath of the Waves

**Wrath of the Waves - Brawly's Tale**

I thumb open my cigarette lighter and three rolled joints lean close to suck up the fire's warmth. Y'know, even before I started smoking I always carried a lighter. It made me feel good, whenever some passerby on the street asked me for a light, that I could do something nice for another somebody. Plus, it's all poetic and stuff – y'know, one bro sharing his light with another, sending out a warm glow for all mankind. It feels right, man.

Once we're all lit up my students lean close to soak up my personal light. Exhaling smoke, I keep going with my lesson. "So then, this Karl guy was all like 'dude, it's the workers who control the means of production; they're the ones who really run everything'!" My students gasp. "Whoa..." I love it, the way they're all mesmerized. Takes me back to philosophy class with Profesor Duester and how he'd have me hanging on every word. College was killer-lame but the Duester was all right.

Natie's hand shoots up. "Big Kahuna, I get what you're saying, but I don't 'get-get' it. Think you can spell it out all clear-like?"

"Well bro, it's like surfing. When you're on top of a big wave you feel you're king of the world. 'Cept you gotta remember you didn't get there on your own steam. You're there 'cause of the water – it's all those zillions of drops holdin' t'gether and workin' as a team that picked you up so you can do some wickedly awesome ridin'. What I'm sayin' is, if we all just learned to be like the wave and worked together as one, think of how awesome we could make society." The boys awe again.

"But waves move blindly," a voice interrupts. "You need people with vision to guide the mob. Maybe the wave is like a community but there's always going to be inequality – water nearer the top and water trapped at the bottom. If you tried to level everything you'd be left with a limp and lifeless puddle."

My students turn to this new voice from the bedroom. Hayley walks out, multi-tasking like usual: holding hairpins in her mouth, texting with one hand and buttoning up her blouse with the other. "Morning, surfer boys. How's Brawly treating you this morning?"

"Awesome!"

"Killer!"

"So hot ... I mean, good, Ma'am!"

Hayley shoots me a wink and I just shake my head. She always gets a kick out of teasing the boys – popping out in just a towel, or waiting till she's in the kitchen to pull on her nylons. Hey, not that I'm complaining; we all need our egos scratched some time. Like, I know I'm boss at surfing but there's nothin' like that extra kick you get when there's a crowd cheerin' you on.

Her lipstick's fresh so I peck Hayley on the cheek. "How'd you sleep?"

"A lot longer than you," she smirks. "It's beyond me how you manage to get yourself up at five-thirty for these early morning practices."

"I do what I gotta for my elite class." Yoga at sunrise, surfing at first light, and then back to my shack to soak up some RnP – that's Rest 'n Philosophy. I make some decent scratch teaching Cianwood's tourists how to balance on the waves, but it's the dedicated surfers that I live to teach. "You stayin' for breakfast?"

Hayley grabs a quick drag of my joint and shakes her head. "Can't hon – the ferry leaves in fifteen minutes and I'm meeting a client back in Olivine. I'll call you next time I'm on the island." Before she can get out the door I wrap my arms around her.

"I love you."

Hayley doesn't say anything – she doesn't have to. She tousles my hair and plants a kiss on my forehead. "Later, Hon." I've barely started my weed but at that moment I am flyin' high. Natie looks up at me like I just won the radio lottery.

"Big Kahuna, you are the luckiest dude on Lugia's blue sea!" Presley seconds the motion.

"On the sea? Dude, more like the whole planet!" Flounder scratches his head, though.

"I don't get it, Big-K. Isn't your lady some big-shot lawyer from Olivine? I mean, we know how awesome you are, but those corporate suits won't give nobody the time of day unless you got, like, three college degrees. Why's she like you so much?" The question earns the kid noogies from his bros.

"We'll explain it when you're older, Tubby." The two high-five. I just shrug my shoulders.

"What can I say – Hayley 'n me, we're soulmates. We met, an somethin' just clicked."

It all goes back two years ago. Hayley's office had sent her to Cianwood to defend a case against our gym leader – I heard ol' Chuck got over-excited again and started fighting pokemon matches himself. She was at the gym until late and all the paperwork left her tired like a boss. She'd worked through supper, missed the last ferry home, and the hotels were gonna squeeze her like a lemon if she walked through their doors. Not a cool day. So Hayley was walking along the boardwalk and tryin' t'clear her head when Khaki Jones and his boys drove down the strip in their Thunder Buggy. There were puddles all over the road from last night's storm and Jonsey sent a huge wave flying all over Hayley. When I saw her she looked ready to cry.

So I tossed my towel over her shoulders and, when Jonsey spun around for round two, I tossed my beer can right at his head. "Party's over, losers!" Justice served, I turned to help the out-of-town chick.

"Hey, you need a place to get cleaned up? 'Cause, um, there's a coin laundry just down the street from my shack and the owner, she's, uh, super good about carryin' spare clothes ..." I kinda choked and started mumbling halfway through. Couldn't help it – once I got a good look at this babe in the dripping wet clothes it was like my tongue stopped working. Dude, she was hot!

As for Hayley, she looked me over, stepped so close I could smell the perfume over her body and flashed me a crooked little smile. "This outfit's hand-wash only."

"It's not all perfect," I admit to the boys. "I mean, she works in Olivine so it's not like she can get out here every day – more often it's just a few hours - but man, when she does get here it's just the best day ever. But y'know, I am thinkin' of proposin' a more permanent situation for us."

I go to my pantry and show the boys the velvet box I've been hiding behind the coffee tin. The pearl ring leaves them speechless. "Big Kahuna, that's huge! Is that a clampearl's?"

"Fraid not, little dude. I snatched this bad boy from the belly of a cloyster." Again, they gasp.

"So that's how you got your hand all messed up last month!" I just smile sheepishly. What can I say? I couldn't surf for a week with all those stitches but Hayley was worth it. That girl, she's greater than any wave in this world.

The cabana door bursts open. It's Coolridge, the snack shop owner, and he's in a panic. "Big Kahuna, Big Kahuna – bad news!"

"Whoa, slow down, dude. Here." I offer him my joint and let him puff up the skunky sweetness until his breathing steadies. "Okay, so what's got your mellow all harshed up, bro?"

"It's Khaki Jones! You know how he was shooting his mouth off about riding the Whirl Run? Well he just came in and he says he circled three pools!"

Natie chokes on his joint. "Three? But that means he beat the Big-K's record!" Presley slams his fist.

"That snake – there's only two days of summer tides left! After that, the water's too rough to ride the Run for a whole year!" Flounder goes into panic mode and has to pull out his inhaler.

"Big-K, this is bad! When everybody hears this, Khaki's surfing school is gonna nab all the new riders! He's trying to shut you down again!"

"Big Kahuna, what're we gonna do?"

My hands make the T sign for 'Time Out'. "First," I explain, "I'm gonna make breakfast." The boys' jaws drop again.

"Aren't you mad, Big Kahuna? You taught Jones everything about surfing and then he sold out to those corporate moneybags!"

Am I mad? Right now I want to crack Khaki's skull like an eggshell! Instead, I fiddle around with some pots and pans in the kitchen, counting to _twenty-one-thousand_ until I'm cool enough to fake a smile. "Whatever, man. Look, I'm pumped that you guys are worryin' about me, but I get by fine with the students I got. I'm not teachin' for the money, I teach 'cause it's what I love." I try not to think about the stack of letters in my dresser drawer, each stamped with an angry, red _overdue_.

"Still," I add, "stealing a bro's personal record sounds like a challenge. Looks like I gotta remind everyone how a real Cianwood surfer rides." I'm waiting on a big cheer from my boys but they all go into shock.

"Big Kahuna, no! The sharpedo migration's already started!"

"And the waves'll be even rougher!"

"You don't wanna piss off Lugia," Flounder yells. My mind's made up, though. I declare the class finished, grab some cash from my money tin and head for the door. "Where ya goin', Big Kahuna?"

"Olivine City. Next ferry leaves in half an hour, right? If I'm gonna ride the Whirl Run, there's somebody I wanna make sure is waitin' for me at shore."

* * *

Olivine rides up on the horizon like a wave of pointy, metal teeth. I can't remember the last time I hit the big city. College, I guess, and 'cept for philosophy class that place killed my buzz so bad I didn't ever wanna come back. City life messes you up, man; makes you all about the money. I don't really wanna think about those days – back when the cops knew me as the Brawlster - but the ferry between Cianwood and Olivine is killer long and there's nothin' to do but think. It's not like you can just plow through the sea; you've gotta circle around it and the rocky islands at the center. I scope out the Whirl Islands from the observation deck; check out the four sinkholes where water swirls down in corkscrews. _The Mouths of Lugia._ Three years ago I made the impossible possible – I wind-surfed around two of those whirlpools in a single run, dancing around their hungry lips like a finger just begging to be bitten off. Everyone said I was nuts when I went out, but when I came back they cheered me like a hero.

Now everybody's cheering for that lame-wad Khaki Jones, when yesterday they were all laughin' behind his back and talkin' about what a sell-out he was. Now the burger joint is selling 'Khakiburgers'; the mayor's talkin' about a celebration parade – yeah, thanks for offering me one, Derrick! – and all the ice cream vendors are lickin' their chops and thinkin' of all the tourists Jonesy's big story will rake in.

I hate money and what it does to people. Money turns people into dirty, rotten liars; it makes students stab their teachers in the back; it keeps lovers apart at their separate jobs, and when you don't have enough money it makes people look down on you like you're scum. The world would be so much better if we just got rid of this rotten, capitalist system; stopped helping ourselves and learned to help each other!

_I'm gonna lose Dad's shack... _I can kick anybody's ass in a fair fight, so how is it I'm getting sucker-punched by piles of paper?_ Dad ..._ Every beam in that house, we cut, sanded and nailed with our own bare hands, and now some pencil-necked geek from the bank thinks he can take it away?

My knuckles are going white from wringing the railing like a neck. _Whoa, good vibes, Brawly! Think good vibes!_ I've still got the most beautiful babe in all of Johto by my side, and I've still got my fame as the guy who made the Whirl Run. Or, at least, I had that fame. Jonesy, you mandibuzz – it wasn't enough that you picked my bones clean, now you gotta crack open the leftovers and suck up the marrow.

I have to do this run. I have to get my title back. It's all I've got left.

My fists are still trembling. _Good vibes, good vibes!_ This is my chance to show everybody just what I'm made of and how little all those corporate sponsorships or lab-tested surfboards really matter. Plus, it's gonna give me the best scenario for a proposal ever. I've got it all figured out: I'll invite Hayley to watch my run tomorrow, and after I surf in I'm gonna walk right up to her. "That was for you, babe," I'll say. "I don't want no one sayin' you're stuck with the second-best surfer in all Cianwood. I wanna be your number one." Then, I'll get down on one knee...

The ferry whistle knocks me out of that fantasy. We're in Olivine. Quick as a yanma I boogie off the ship and to the finance district. Hayley never did tell me where she lives but I've looked up the name of her law firm. The streets are crowded and the cars zip by, reckless as bullets. _What's the rush, buddy?_ If I can't spot Hayley, she'll definitely see me. Blue hair, shorts and sandals – I stick out like a sore thumb, and the suits all glare at me to make sure I know I'm not welcome. Whatever, man.

Then, out of nowhere, I spot Hayley across the street. I'm about to call out her name when some pervert, this bald-headed suit with thick glasses, grabs Hayley from behind, bends her over and forces her lips against his own. My vision goes red. You pig! I've gotta storm over there and knock his clock into Kanto, but I'm trapped by the rush of cars! I might as well be on the other side of a river! I watch as Hayley pushes away the jerk – yeah, you show him, girl! – but then she gives the guy a crooked little smile, stands up on her toes and plants a peck on his cheek.

What?

She smiles at the suit; laughs at some corny joke he tells her and lets him carry her overnight bag. Then she spots somebody behind the guy and her eyes beam. Hayley kneels down, throws open her arms to scoop up a four year-old girl in a flowery dress and she smothers the kid with kisses.

My gut goes cold. I race across the street even though the light's still green; even through there's a car marked 'student driver' coming full speed...

When I come to it's a few seconds in the future. My brain must have switched off from the stress. It hurts to move but I crane my neck around. The busted-up car is pressed against my chest, there's a brick wall digging into my back and there's no room for a person in between. I can't see anything below my ribs.

My hands crumple the car fender. I shove the car across the street; I stand, smash my fist through the concrete wall and I roar. Then I stamp across the street, knocking over everything and everybody in my way until I'm face to face with Hayley. I grab her, I shake her, I scream at her. "You like messing with me, bitch? You think you can make a joke out of Brawly?"

In my head, that's how it goes down. In the real world I'm pinned behind a busted car and my blood's pouring out so fast I can't even whimper. I'm supposed to ride all four Whirl Islands! I'm supposed to get eaten by a sharpedo or smashed against a rock or taken down by the undertow! I'm supposed to save my home and show Khaki Jones just how little all his corporate sponsorships got him! I'm supposed to train my boys into the next-gen of great Cianwood surfers! I'm supposed to marry Hayley, grow old with her and watch my boy learn to ride his first surfboard...

I want to scream until the city crumbles but I'm choking on my own blood...

Hayley glances at the noisy traffic accident and speed-walks away, covering her girl's eyes so she doesn't see the mess. I can't tell if she saw me or not, but it wouldn't make any difference. _She's one of them_. Just another greedy swinub snorting up money like a vacuum, eyes shut to everything but herself. I want to slap her face so bad but I'm too weak to move, too weak to do anything with this rage.

When breathing gets too hard and everything starts going dark I don't close my eyes - I clench them shut.


	3. A Spark of Sloth

**A Spark of Sloth - Wattson's Tale**

My wife, Clara, was a visionary. She took the old and reshaped it into something new and beautiful. That's how she made her living when I met her: "recycled art", she called it. She'd accept donations of old clothes and stitch them into designer dresses; people would send old junk to her shop and she'd craft them into art sculptures for sale.

We met because mechanical repairs were never her specialty. It was her car; I'd always notice the old clunker in the back lane - how could anyone miss the dented bumper held on by duct tape? - and it bothered me to see such a straightforward repair go unchecked. Money must have been tight, but still... When I finally introduced myself and approached her about it, Clara shrugged. "I know it's not right, but I can keep going. You understand, I'm sure?"

I didn't. Building and maintaining machines has always been second nature to me. At four I made my first toy car out of a cereal box and jar lids, and from there on I could always see the potential in my world. A tree was just an unshaped table; steel an unrealized machine, and copper wiring was a snake waiting to thread itself through a house and bring light. The next morning I returned to Clara's shop with my welder and tools. "Free of charge," I assured her. I wanted to know more about this woman who could breathe new life into the old. I wanted to make sure she'd never have to "keep going" when things weren't right.

Forty-five years later I think I finally understand what you meant, Clara. It isn't right when a man wakes in the morning, turns to kiss his wife and remembers he's alone in his bed. It isn't right when all that's left of your lover's smile is framed photograph on the nightstand. It isn't right being so alone but you man up, you plug up that hole, and you keep going.

The hoots of twelve coo-coo clocks greet me every morning. My bedroom shelves are lined with delicate music boxes, wind-up figurines and toy robots with light-up eyes and action sounds. I've decided I like clockwork mechanics. Lots of little pieces. Lots to keep you busy when the going gets slow.

These days, all my goings are slow. I'm slow to rise, slow to get dressed; my fingers fumble over the buttons on my shirt. The surgical scar dug into my chest can't hide fast enough. Those doctors act like such big-shots but I'd never leave such an obvious seal on my repair work. I don't care much for mirrors anymore. I can't stand to see that scar, that show of weakness, or the stranger with gray hair and withered skin who looks back on me.

That man isn't Wattson Voltaire. That man couldn't assemble the precision electronics on a circuit board, his hands couldn't carve, hammer and raise up a house for his wife. He can't even maintain himself.

When I shuffle into the kitchen Abigail is bowed in prayer - scrunched over her poketch and texting orders to the underlings at her office. "Breakfast's getting cold," she says, forgoing 'good morning', or even 'how are you feeling, dad?' I think back over my years of parenting; try to remember what I might have done to make her turn out so cold, so distant. I've built automobiles and computers that have lasted for years. Surely I could raise a decent human being.

Breakfast is a bowl of sludgy oatmeal served in a styrofoam bowl, one of those 'instant meal' concoctions Abigail swears by. I try a spoonful and, sure enough, the slop clings to my throat like sawdust. This isn't what you need to start the day. Breakfast means protein - eggs and bacon with a healthy squirt of hot sauce to jumpstart your taste buds; then coffee, black and steaming, to slurp it all down and fire up your body for the day. My daughter may be a grown woman, but she's not too old for a lesson on a proper meal. I march to the fridge to gather my ingredients and do a double take. The fridge - my fridge - has been ransacked; emptied out and filled with nothing but flavorless yogurt and protein shakes.

"You're on a diet, dad. Doctor Markenson told us you've got to watch your cholesterol." Abigail doesn't even look up from her wristwatch, and her indifference makes me bristle. I don't care if she's four or forty; you never speak to your father so flippantly!

"I don't need you to buy my groceries." I slam the door, grateful to shut out the refrigerated cold. I've dressed in long pants and a sweater but my teeth still chatter. Abigail's bought a quilt that I'm supposed to wrap around my shoulders but it's heavy and cumbersome; might as well stuff me into a burlap sack. No, what I need is a jacket. A jacket with interior pockets that you can slide a hot water pack into. I've already figured out the design in my mind's eye; all that's left is to craft my invention.

"Dad, what're you cutting up those washcloths for?"

"It's cold. I'm making a jacket."

Abigail yanks the scissors from my hand and sits me back at the table. "Honestly, dad, you don't have to make things so complicated. I'll turn up the heat."

_You'll crank up my heating bill, you mean. _I've saved away, but I'm not made of money. Not after the surgery. I'm too tired to argue. If I had a joltik for every time we fought, I'd have enough energy to power an entire city. Abigail goes back to her texting while I stir up my oatmeal, trying to make it more appealing. How long has it been since we actually talked to one another?

"How are things at the office?"

_What do you care? _She doesn't say it, but I can read the irritation in her face. "Fine. We're evaluating a new formula for battle potions. Animal testing starts tomorrow."

"Uh huh? And what about that boy you're seeing? Rory or something?"

"I'm not seeing anyone, dad."

"Why not? A pretty girl like you ought to have -"

"Dad, we've had this conversation before. I'm happy with my life and I don't need to share it with anyone."

"Well who's going to look after you? You never let me teach you how to cook or how to change a tire or how to use a hammer! What're you going to do when things start falling apart around your place?"

"When I'm hungry I order take-out. I call the tow-truck when my car breaks down and I hire repairmen to fix my appliances. People don't need to worry about building or fixing things, dad. I make enough money that I can let other people handle that for me."

_Where's your pride? Where's that spark to shape your world? _I glance at the trees in my backyard. "The sitrus berries look plenty ripe. I'd better get a ladder and start picking them."

"Outside?" Abigail shoots up and blocks my path. "Dad, it's the middle of summer; you shouldn't be out in this heat."

"I can do whatever I damn please!"

"Dad, you had a double bypass surgery; the doctors warned you about exerting yourself and now you want to go outside, climb up ladders and lift heavy pails? You need to rest and take things easy!"

"Rest up for what? You won't let me work in my shop; you won't let me cook my own meals! I'm like one of your damn pokemon - trapped inside a little cage and only let out to do whatever you say!"

"Dad, that's not - "

"I built this house and everything in it! I don't need you telling me how to live my life! Your mother and I, we made everything ourselves and we didn't rely on anyone!"

"And is it any wonder you're in such bad shape? Look at yourself - your clothes are nothing but patches, the roof is falling apart, and if your license wasn't already revoked you'd still be driving that god-awful wreck you call a car. By Arceus, do you realize how badly you embarrassed me every time you showed up at school in that junk pile? Or how the girls made fun of me for wearing nothing but home-spun hand-me-downs? I guess you never did; you were always too busy building some new 'invention' that blasted workshop!"

"You... you ungrateful little girl! After everything your mother and I did for you -"

"You know dad, you're right. I should be thanking you for inspiring me. Do you know why I always worked so hard? At school, at my part-time jobs, at university? I worked so I could get a real job and I wouldn't have to grow up a worthless miser like you and mom!"

Ticking clocks and humming appliances fill the silence. I'm furious but I can't scream anymore. I've got no breath in my lungs; my heart is aching like a swollen fruit, ready to fall off. My heart...

Abigail catches me, keeps me from falling. She sits me down in my chair and gets me a glass of water. I guzzle it down as I pant like a dog. "We looked after you. Your mother and I - we tried teaching you to be resourceful."

"Wake up, dad. You're not a young man anymore. All this heavy lifting, this climbing; all this tinkering - it's not safe, dad."

"Living isn't safe," I growl.

My daughter takes my hand and kneels so she can look me in the eye. "Dad, I don't want to lose you. You always say there's nothing you can't fix; well, I want to fix us. I don't want us to be cold and angry anymore. But you have to help me, dad. Please? For me?"

Abby always did have her mother's eyes. "I'll try," I mumble, and my daughter hugs me tight. It's the first real warmth I've felt since Clara passed.

Then the beep of her poketch brings us back to reality. "I've got to run, dad - there's a big meeting at the office this morning. I've set out meals for lunch and dinner; you just need to re-heat them in the microwave, okay? Oh, and remember: two tablets after every meal. Got it?"

She slides over the pill box with my blood thinners. "Right..." Pleased with my compliance, Abigail kisses my forehead and marches out the door.

And I survey my accomplishments. She's right; the house really is falling apart. The kitchen sink is leaking, the paint is peeling, and the cracks running through the plaster are too many to count. I look over the toys and trinkets on my shelves; arrange them from oldest to newest and realize just how cheap my latest creations look. _Like a child pieced them together. _These problems should energize me, motivate me - there's something that needs to be fixed and improved, but...

_You're not a young man anymore, dad. _

I look at my trembling, withered hands, scarred and callused from years of labour. My mind is brimming with inventions and ideas but how could hands like these ever keep up?

What's left for me now? Sit and think about my wife and how empty the world seems without her? This isn't living, this is marking time. Stuck in a glass jar and kept under observation. Frozen alive and left on display.

Two tablets after every meal.

I carry the pillbox to the kitchen sink, pop out my morning ration and flush the pills down the drain.


End file.
